


How Hard Is It To Get John Hard? (Apparently Very)

by AestheticUsername



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor!John, Experiment, M/M, Oneshot, Science Experiments, experiments gone wrong, h/c, patient!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 06:38:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7303561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AestheticUsername/pseuds/AestheticUsername
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock paced back and forth in his mind palace, glaring daggers at his sadly lacking sections on arousal and attraction. Normally he wouldn’t care about such things, but there had been a few instances where further knowledge on the subjects would have sped up his cases. That, however, was not what caused his frustration. John, after Sherlock explained why he needed to know good places to “pick up girls,” had, on no uncertain terms, forbidden him to experiment on live women. He called it ‘playing with their emotions,’ or some nonsense." Who was he supposed to experiment on??</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Hard Is It To Get John Hard? (Apparently Very)

 

Sherlock paced back and forth in his mind palace, glaring daggers at his sadly lacking sections on arousal and attraction. Normally he wouldn’t care about such things, but there had been a few instances where further knowledge on the subjects would have sped up his cases. That, however, was not what caused his frustration. John, after Sherlock explained why he needed to know good places to “pick up girls,” had, on no uncertain terms, forbidden him to experiment on live women. He called it ‘playing with their emotions,’ or some nonsense. Sherlock would have ignored John’s request, as he usually did, but the last time he had done so, the kitchen cabinets had ended up scorched and blackened, and John still complained on occasion about a persistent smell of burning chemicals.

Sherlock could think of no ways to research without a test subject. He had quickly discarded the obvious ideas: porn, staged, all faked, television shows, for much the same reason, and following John to his newest girlfriend’s flat, because, well, he had to live with John, and that would be extremely difficult if he couldn’t look him in the eye.

Then it hit him. An idea. A brilliant, fantastic idea.

Sherlock snapped open his eyes, back in 221B, and jumped over the back of his chair, headed to the kitchen. There wasn’t much time before John came back with the milk.

 

 

“Sherlock. I’m back,” John called. Sherlock didn’t respond. John kicked the door closed behind him and struggled to maneuver the grocery bags in his arms into the kitchen, aggravated by his lazy flatmate. After another row with the pin and chip machine, he was in no mood for Sherlock’s laziness. He turned the corner into the kitchen, and smiled in a way only an angry hedgehog can smile.

‘What are you doing?” John dropped the groceries on the table, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s back. Again, no reply. The consulting detective was stooped over the counter, his back to John, and from what John could see, he was mixing chemicals, carefully pouring and measuring. Test tubes and beakers littered the space around him, filled with varying colored liquids, some smoking slightly. John subconsciously noted that he was barefoot.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock continued his work as he responded, “I heard you. And if you _must_ know, I‘m trying to concoct an untraceable poison taken by skin contact. Did you get the milk?”

There was a sharp intake of breath, and Sherlock smirked slightly, his back still to John.

“Sherlock! Put gloves on this instant!”

Sherlock calmly started to object, “John, I-”

“I don’t care how careful you think you’ll be.” John pulled open a drawer, yanked out a pair of latex gloves, and threw them haphazardly toward the counter next to Sherlock, along with a curt, “put them on.” The clinking of glass stopped him short in his rant.

Sherlock’s shoulders stiffened slightly. “I cannot finish my experiment if you continue to contaminate my solutions and beakers. And as I was saying,” Sherlock picked up the soiled gloves in his already gloved hands and placed them in the sink on top of several washcloths and towels. “I _am_ wearing gloves.” He glanced up and saw the relief flash across John’s face, quickly replaced by embarrassment. He also detected the beginning of an apology, so he added quickly, “If you don’t put the milk in the refrigerator soon it’ll go bad… you didn’t forget to get it did you?”

John huffed out an “of course not” and, all intentions of apologies forgotten, began unpacking and putting away groceries, starting with the milk.

“When will you get rid of this blasted head in the refrigerator? It’s taking up too much space.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“It’s an _experiment_ .” John’s only response was to ask the scientist to move so he could put boxed carbohydrates in the cabinet beneath him. Each worked in silence for the next few minutes. Sherlock reverently dripped drops of a yellowish liquid into a beaker with an eyedropper (John had a nagging suspicion that it was _his_ eyedropper), and John swiftly moved groceries around in the fridge to make room for the milk.

“Can you stop for a minute?” It was John who broke the silence. “I need to put this up in that cabinet.” He nodded towards a can of salt in his hand, then the cabinet above Sherlock’s temporary laboratory. Sherlock added a few more drops and moved aside. John nodded his thanks and opened the cabinet, salt in hand.

In his defense, there was no way he could have stopped it. The moment he pulled open the cabinet, an avalanche of tea fell to the counter. Sherlock’s arms shot out and either caught or knocked aside most of the boxes, but a few slipped between his long, slender fingers. One struck a beaker with enough force to knock it over, flinging its contents onto the unfortunate duo. Sherlock threw aside the boxes he had caught and pulled John roughly towards him.

“Take it off! Take it off!” he yelled frantically, motioning towards John’s jumper, covered in the solution. Sherlock, not satisfied with John’s speed, pulled the hem of the sweater over his head, careful not to touch it to his own or the Army doctor’s skin. When he had pulled it off his arms, he threw it in the sink with the other contaminated things. Quickly he turned back to check if the solution soaked through the jumper. Satisfied that it had not, he checked the rest of John’s clothes.

“It looks like that ridiculous jumper you’re always wearing has finally served a purpose. It will have to be burned with the rest of the soiled stuff.”

“Sherlock?”

“Of course, you can always get anoth-”

“Sherlock.” Something in John’s tone made Sherlock pause.

“Hmm?” John looked pointedly at the consulting detective’s chest. Sherlock looked down to see a large dark stain across the bottom of his own shirt. He cursed and tore it off, sending buttons skittering across the floor as he did so. Into the sink it went. He cursed again as he pulled off his trousers, the hem of which was slightly darker in color than the rest. As he threw them into the sink, he turned the water on full blast and aimed the sprayer at himself. If John hadn’t been so concerned for his friend’s (and slightly his own) life, he would have laughed. Sherlock, in nothing but his shorts and latex gloves, spraying himself with water from the sink was not something that could be seen everyday at 221b. But as it were, John was terrified.

“Is there an antidote, Sherlock?”

“No,” Sherlock didn’t turn off the spray to answer. “I couldn’t make an antidote for a poison I haven’t finished yet, don’t be absurd.” He glanced over and, seeing the strained expression on John’s face, quickly added, “It wasn’t finished yet, not a proper poison. I probably won’t die. There might be a nasty rash for several weeks, but I’ll live. Most likely.” John let out a quiet sigh, and after a moment’s pause turned to asses the damage. Tea boxes were strewn across the room (why they even had that much, John didn’t know), there were several turned over beakers, one in pieces on the floor, solutions were dripping from the counter to the cabinet doors to the floor, and, on top of all that, buttons from Sherlock’s shirt were spread all over the place.

Finally, Sherlock turned the sink off. John turned towards him and froze in his tracks. Sherlock’s gloves were gone, presumably into the sink, and he was standing in the middle of the kitchen floor, dripping all over. John did take a moment to appreciate how well-built the man was. Obviously his size was misleading.

“I need a towel.” John raised both eyebrows

“Sherlock, you know how I feel about you stating the obvious.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at the weak mockery and sighed in exasperation.

‘If I hadn’t said anything, you would have continued to stare at my body. Now will you _please_ ,” he put extra emphasis on the word ‘please’ “bring me a towel?” John turned quickly to fetch the towel, only slightly embarrassed at having been caught gawking.

When He returned, he was greeted by a fantastic view of Sherlock’s bum in the air. John almost dropped the towel. The one and only consulting detective was on his hands and knees on the floor, reaching under the table. John felt his face flush, and tried to calm himself down. He cleared his throat, and when Sherlock ignored him, he dropped the towel on the man’s back. Sherlock slowly stood, his bare hands cupped together. The towel fell to the floor as he rose, momentarily forgotten.

“The buttons, John. Some of them were splashed with the solution. No! No, don’t touch anything,” he said as the shorter man stooped to help retrieve the toxic buttons. “You’ll have to put on gloves to touch anything. All that tea has to go in the sink. We can’t dring it if it got wet, even a little.”

John straightened up, carefully stepped over the glass fragments on the floor, and retrieved two pairs of gloves; one for him and one for Sherlock. He started by throwing the contaminated tea into the sink. The totally dry ones he stacked on the table to await Sherlock’s approval before stacking them back in the cabinet. Afterwards, he cautiously picked up all the glass fragments, rinsed them off -there was always a chance someone would touch them- and tossed them in the trash can. By that time Sherlock had collected all the buttons and deposited them into the sink. Together, he and John wiped off the counters, cabinets, and floors, as well as righted the beakers on the counters.

When all was cleaned up, Sherlock excused himself to take a shower, not trusting the sink to have gotten off all the solution. He also promised he would take care of the contaminated things in the sink.

John took advantage of Sherlock’s absence. He spent the time re-scrubbing the counters and cabinets and mopping the entire kitchen, just to be sure. He had just finished and settled into his chair by the fire, when he heard Sherlock call him from his room. Immediately, he sprang up, envisioning Sherlock writhing on the floor, a huge rash covering his chest, arms, and neck. He hurried to Sherlock’s room, rapped twice on the door, and went in, not waiting for a response. He was greatly relieved to find Sherlock standing very much alive next to the bed, his hair, still wet from the shower, hung limply in his face. He wore only a navy blue towel tied around his waist. John tried to keep his eyes on Sherlock’s face.

“As I thought, the sink wasn’t enough to get off all the solution, and I waited too long to was off the rest. It burns quite terribly.”

John frowned and directed his gaze towards the almost-naked man’s torso. There was a splotch around his middle, stopping in a line around where his trousers had been, that was red and inflamed. A quiet “oh” was all John could manage.

“The material in the trousers were thicker than that in the shirt. It took longer to soak through, and none made it to the skin,” Sherlock explained. “And I neglected to put gloves on before picking up the buttons.” He held up his hands as evidence. The thumb and forefinger on the right hand were red and puffy, even more so than Sherlock’s torso, as were the palms. John’s face flushed, this time out of shame.

“I _am_ sorry, Sherlock. This was all my fault.”

“Yes it is,” Sherlock began. John looked down to his feet, embarrassed. “However, I’m willing to  forgive you if you’ll…” Sherlock paused and cleared his throat before continuing. “If you’ll help me bandage this up.”

John looked up at the detective. Of course, he mentally berated himself. The man couldn’t very well bandage himself with rashes on his hands.

‘I’ll get my kit.” John rushed to his room and grabbed his first aid kit from where he always kept it, right inside the closet door. Inside were bandages of every kind, plus ointments and salves, several needles and silk stitching, and other medical knick-knacks. On his way out the door, he snatched an extra roll of bandage tape off his dresser. He might need it.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he walked at a fast pace back to his patient’s room.

“I have an ointment that might help with the burning, but I can’t-” The Army doctor caught sight of Sherlock struggling to pull a pair of loose pajama bottoms over his shorts with one hand, and stopped short. “Oh, I...umm...would you like some help?” Sherlock shot an annoyed look towards him.

“Of course I would. Unless you’re planning on treating me in my briefs.” John set his kit and roll of tape on the bed next to Sherlock’s discarded towel and as nonchalantly as possible pulled up Sherlock’s trousers. He hoped the detective couldn’t see his face; he was sure it was red as a tomato (He could. It was).

“Thank you,” Sherlock said a bit stiffly.

“Of course. You can sit while I bandage your hands, but you’ll have to stand for that one.” John motioned to the angry red rash on Sherlock’s stomach.

Sherlock sat on the bed with his hands, palms facing up, on his knees. John took a seat next to him and pulled up his kit. He opened the clasp and selected a small jar of ointment.  

“This should help with the burning,” He held the irritated appendage in his lap and gently dabbed a generous amount of the healing balm on the thumb, diligently rubbing it in. He wiped the excess off onto a stray piece of gauze, then bandaged the digit, wrapped it with the tape, and did the same to the forefinger. Sherlock remained silent throughout the ordeal.

“I need you to spread your fingers out so I can bandage your palms.” Sherlock complied.After applying ointment and threading the bandage through Sherlock’s fingers and around his palm, he secured the ends with aluminum clips and wrapped tape around it all “so the pins don’t come undone,” he explained needlessly to his patient. Sherlock knew what the tape was for. After tending the other hand, John said, “There. Those are done.” As he looked at Sherlock’s face, he noticed the hair was still dripping into the beautifully mixed-colored eyes. John frowned.

“You didn’t dry your hair,” he pointed out.

“Oh, John, you know how I despise it when you state the obvious.”

John huffed and picked up the towel where Sherlock had thrown it and dropped it on his friend’s head, gently rubbing it dry. When he was finished, he left the towel on Sherlock’s head and stood. Sherlock followed suit.

John took a moment to examine the rash.

“This one’s worse. Left untreated for longer.” He looked up at Sherlock. “This might sting a bit.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Just put it on,” Sherlock said, annoyed.

John dipped out a fair amount of the minty-smelling substance and rubbed it on the affected area. Sherlock flinched and hissed as the cold ointment touched his skin. The sudden movement caused the towel on his head to slide to the floor, landing in a heap by his feet.

“It’s cold,” the consulting detective complained.

“It’s supposed to be. It’ll help with the burning.” Neither spoke as John scooped out more ointment, stooped down, and massaged it in, careful to include every red area. When he had finished, he pulled out the biggest roll of bandages he had, and began wrapping. After quite a few turns around, he cut and pinned it, adding a bit of tape.

“That should be good. You shouldn’t sleep on your stomach, but I don’t think that will be a problem. Are your hands still burning?” Sherlock informed him that they felt much better, and asked if the doctor would help him get his shirt on, seeing as how he couldn’t use his hands. After pointing out where he kept his shirts, John retrieved a plain gray tee.

“Arms out,” he commanded. Sherlock obediently stretched his hands out in front of him. As John struggled to get his flatmate’s hands through the arm holes without rubbing the bandages, Sherlock took a minute to study his face. Naturally, he had John’s face memorized, every freckle and wrinkle (there weren’t many of these), but it never hurt to look at the original. He would never get tired of John’s face. It was, for lack of a better term, ruggedly handsome. His hairline was perfect, almost exactly symmetrical. His short, blond hair stuck up slightly in the front, and an image of a small round animal popped into Sherlock’s mind.

John pulled the shirt over Sherlock’s head and slowly over the bandaged portion of his middle. When it was down, he patted the bandage over the shirt to make sure none of the edges were folded down or coming undone. Satisfied, he said, “there you go. That should hold. Do you need anything else?” John gave the binding one last check and moved to pack up his kit.

“Thank you, that is all.”

“We’ll have to change the dressings in the morning, so don’t go running off.”

Sherlock nodded. John placed the last things into the case and snapped it shut, securing the clasp. He glanced at his watch and frowned. “If you’re sure that’s all, then I’ll be going. I have a… um, a meeting to go to.”

“Your date, yes. I almost forgot. Yes I’m quite sure. Have fun.” John sighed and made his way to the door. He knew better than to ask how the detective knew it was a date.

“John?” John turned, eyebrows raised.

“What?”

“Thank you. Really.” John blinked.

“You’re welcome, Sherlock...really.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Get out. I need to go to my mind palace.”

“As long as you promise not to _invent_ any poisons while I’m gone.”

“I can’t promise. Bye.”

John huffed but left Sherlock alone with his thoughts. Sherlock remained standing in the middle of his room, listening to John bustling about in his (John’s) room, preparing for his social outing. As soon as he knew John was out of the flat, on his way to meet Ellen (his date), he groaned loudly and flopped backwards onto the bed, wincing as the bandages chafed his sensitive skin.

John came so close- _so close-_ to completing his experiment. Maybe he didn’t go far enough. He’d have to try again, something more… dramatic maybe. Sherlock rolled onto his side, grimacing as he did so. Definitely something less painful.

 

 

Out in the cold winter air, on his way to meet his date, John smirked.

“He’ll have to try harder than that to get results from me.” He hummed a few bars of a broken tune. “Much harder.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! please, leave a comment, I'd love to hear from you!


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